by Kim Bowman
Wilhelm turned his head to the side and moaned. His chest moved up and down as he drew a breath, and relief unfurled in her chest, growing into a ray of pure joy.
Colonel O’Grady lowered the barrel of his smoking pistol.
Her mind registered the meaning as her gaze darted to Chauncey, sprawled on the ground with his limbs turned at odd angles. She saw it, the round dark hole through his right temple, leaking fluid too dark and viscous to look like blood. A rank odor drifted her way, and she understood what the term stench of death meant. Chauncey’s eyes stared wide at her, but he lay unnaturally still.
Dead.
She felt nothing for him.
Strong hands gripped her arms and hauled her to her feet — Philip, the only one of the three men making any sound, cursing under his breath. He brushed over her back and turned her around, supposedly searching for signs of injury. Then he stood behind her, letting her lean on his shoulder while her legs remembered how to hold her weight.
“Fine shot, Ben.” Wilhelm rolled and posed in a crouch, panting with his hands resting on his knees. The dagger still protruded from his leg, but it had been wrenched downward, lengthening the gash. He didn’t seem to notice the blood seeping from the wet edges of the cut, dripping onto the ground.
“Damned fool,” O’Grady answered.
Sophia blinked, trying to think through the wave of shock. Her heart pounded; her pulse throbbed in her throat. She didn’t see how O’Grady could have shot Chauncey but missed Wilhelm. It had all happened so quickly.
She began to comprehend the circumstances. Chauncey was dead and she finally had her freedom. Wilhelm hadn’t murdered him. None of the Cavendish girls had fallen victim. Could it truly be so favorable?
“Ben, send for the coroner. I am going to have to explain.” Wilhelm stood, slowly, with strain. He drew his handkerchief and wiped his face and arms, making little progress in removing the spattered blood. She peeled her hand from Philip’s arm and staggered toward Wilhelm. Her legs still didn’t function properly, unwelcome remainders of her panic. Wilhelm drew her against his left side, holding her away from his injured leg. She ignored the damp spots of blood on his shirt and soaked in his warmth, reveling in his simply being alive.
“Philip, fetch a surgeon. You are the fastest rider here—” He looked down at her and amended, “besides Sophia. See if you can find Mr. Greyes.” Philip sprinted away toward the stables, shouting orders to the groomsmen.
With no small commotion the Cavendish girls ran from the house, trailed by Lady Chauncey and Aunt Louisa. Sophia watched, amazed, as more than two dozen men gripping rifles emerged from the tree line around the property, converging around the west drawing room window. Wilhelm’s army, she supposed.
“Aunt Louisa, take the girls back inside. Everything is under control.” Wilhelm’s voice rolled in that calm lilt he used on his horses. Aunt Louisa stared wide-eyed at the dagger embedded in his thigh, and the girls gasped and cried in dismay. “Go!” he thundered, jarring the women from their shock.
Helena crept forward and peered at her dead husband lying in the grass. No one seemed compelled to reach down and close his eyes.
“Deepest condolences, my lady,” Wilhelm said quietly to her.
Helena turned and squared her shoulders. “You will find me the merriest of widows.” She wore no expression, mirroring the fractious disconnect Sophia felt. Surreal, to live with abject fear every day of one’s life, only to have it eliminated suddenly. It went against her instincts to view her father’s death and still feel nothing, no loss, no grief, not even joy or vindication for all the animosity she had harbored.
Sophia felt Wilhelm sway and leaned against him to right his balance. Oh, no. How could she be so stupid? This was Wilhelm the Soldier, Iron Wil who displayed unwavering leadership and infallibility at all costs. Even as he bled out.
“Wil. Let them help you inside.” She caught O’Grady and Sir Gideon’s attention, gesturing for them to help. “Now, please.”
“It’s nothing, Sophie. I’ve had much worse.” He spied Martin approaching and shouted instructions, something about a wire to Ashton in Lancashire.
Martin responded, “Apologies, but it already went out. By now Preston—”
Sophia wedged herself between Wilhelm and Martin, scoped the men in the clearing with her gaze, staring them down one by one. “Martin. Colonel O’Grady. Sir Gideon.” The latter raised his brows in surprise, and she remembered she had no polite explanation for knowing his name, but didn’t care.
She infused ice into her voice and speared them with her most livid scowl. “Gentlemen, my husband went to a great deal of trouble trying to get himself killed this morning. Kindly take him inside before he bleeds to death.” They stared, looking disturbed. She shouted “Now!” and they jumped to obey, Wilhelm protesting and calling out orders all the way.
It took four men to haul Wilhelm up the stairs and place him on his bed. He had the presence of mind to demand she be carried up the stairs; embarrassing that the task landed on Sir Gideon. He pretended she was no strain, but she had to be heavy, a tall woman with the extra weight of her condition. No one seemed to worry about Wilhelm’s peaked complexion and blood-soaked clothes. She couldn’t take her eyes off the dagger and the blood seeping from the wound.
“Ben, wire Barney and Cox, abort the Versailles operation. Martin, see if Torquay will relay—”
“Wilhelm! Stop.” His men froze, staring at her again. She waved a hand at the soldiers. “Out, all of you, unless you are doctors.” At their bewildered looks, she prompted, “No? Then whatever the matter is, manage it yourselves.” This time they complied without her shrieking. Perhaps it was the threat-of-evisceration look she’d been practicing, inspired by Aunt Louisa.
Wilhelm dropped his head back and sighed, closing his eyes. “I am fine, Sophie.”
“Liar. You know you’re in danger. I have never seen you so desperate for distraction before.”
“So distract me.” He rested a hand on her knee and slid the skirts up her thigh. Impossible man. Bleeding to death and making advances? “Or we could discuss what in hell you were doing outside, alone.”
“I had Fritz and Dagmar.”
He snorted in derision. “You should be punished.” He winked, and his lips pulled into the dimpled half-smile that always stopped her heart. “Naughty girl.”
She grabbed a corner of the sheet and dabbed at the blood on his face. No use; it had dried in a macabre crust. She unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off from under his back. That he barely lifted his head to help was proof of his serious condition. At least the cuts on his arms and torso had stopped bleeding. Shallow scratches, thankfully. “You look a fright, Wil.”
He disarmed her with a dimpled half-smile. “Nothing new.”
Oh, no. He blinked too slowly, lingering with his eyes closed. His skin drained, growing paler by the minute.
Sophia leaned to examine the dagger wedged to the hilt in his leg. An alarming pool of blood soaked the sheets below. “Why don’t you pull it out?”
“I would like to; I can feel it jabbing into the bone. But if I do, it will bleed without the surgeon here to stop it. Just keep me company awhile, will you?”
Martin returned with a tray, lingering in the doorway, eyeing Sophia as though he feared another outburst.
Wilhelm waved him in. “I hope it’s something good, Martin.”
“Your Thursday mix, my lord.”
Sophia knew he heard cases from the Devon county court on Thursdays, and he often returned home frustrated and ill-tempered, in a mood to drink. Today she agreed he needed it. She handed him the glass and he emptied it in a few swallows. She gave it back to Martin, who refilled it.
“No sign of Lieutenant Cavendish and Greyes yet, but I will look out.”
“Thank you, Martin.” Sophia studied the dagger again. “Wilhelm, I don’t think the knife is holding back the bleeding. I’m worried.” She looked under his leg at the soaked patch on the mat
tress.
“Philip should return in less than an hour.”
“You don’t have an hour.” She stroked his jaw then moved her fingers through his hair, gingerly avoiding the clumps matted with blood. He closed his eyes, his breathing labored.
After a few more minutes, she begged. “Wil, please. Take out the knife. Look, you are shaking and turning pale. You said yourself those are symptoms of dangerous blood loss.”
He didn’t answer.
“Wilhelm! Pull out the knife, or I shall!” She rose to her knees and folded the free half of the bedsheet into a tight bundle. “Do it, or so help me I will ha—”
Wilhelm grasped the handle and yanked. The knife came free as he grunted then dropped the blade. Sophia reached inside the torn fabric and pulled the sides of the cut together, then quickly covered the wound with the folded sheet and leaned her entire weight onto his leg. He laid his head back with a faint hiss and closed his eyes, controlling his breath in slow gusts.
She silently counted five long minutes then asked, “Wil, how is it?”
“Better, actually.”
Sophia leaned forward as she pushed to relieve the strain on her arms. His breath caught.
“Ah, don’t move.”
“Sorry.” She failed to keep the anxiety from her voice. She watched him with his eyes closed, his breathing slow, and she worried he would fall asleep and never wake up. A jolt of panic kicked her heart, and she swallowed a whimper.
Frantically she combed her thoughts for something innocuous to engage him with. “I suppose you’re feeling smug. I can only imagine the measures you went to, orchestrating a private war. You were right about everything.”
“I usually am.” Weakly he raised his empty glass in a toast.
Sophia cleared her throat then dared ask, “Why did you walk away?”
He opened one eye then closed it again. She waited, watching him breathe in and out.
“I didn’t understand,” he said simply. “Not until it was placed before me in a clear choice.”
“Stop speaking in riddles. What do you mean?”
He blew a slow breath between pursed lips. It made her want to kiss him. “Vengeance or redemption. As much as I wanted to crush his throat, I wanted…”
Her arms screamed, burning with the strain of holding his wound shut. She wished she could stroke his hair again, to coax out the rest of his confession.
“I wanted you more, Anne-Sophia. Not to be the man who murdered your father.” He grimaced, breathing in sharp gusts, perhaps waiting for a surge of pain to pass. She thought he’d fallen into a trance until he added, “I may be a lying, cheating bastard with blood on my hands. But I am not a cold-blooded killer. If I crossed that line, I would never be worthy of you.”
Her eyes misted; heat infused her cheeks. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his embrace. She didn’t move an inch.
He rambled on about light, something about a siren song and ghosts, and she knew he had gone delirious. She glanced at the clock, dismayed to see only three-quarters of an hour had passed. When she checked under his leg, no fresh blood, at least.
“You would have made a lousy nun,” he mumbled.
“What?”
He hummed fragments of a tune she didn’t recognize. Wilhelm was far away, hopefully beyond the pain. The clock ticked slow seconds, and she tried not to count, but her anxiety took over, making her dread each passing minute without the doctor arriving.
Sophia studied the stark masculine planes of Wilhelm’s face. She saw strength and tenderness, rough beauty, and an inherent sadness that had become a part of his soul. A wave of possessive adoration swept over her, and there came those dratted tears again. With just a look he made her heart sing. One touch, and her pulse raced. She never grew accustomed to it. He had changed her, saved her from a bitter fate, and carved a better one with the sheer force of his will. His presence was in turn soothing, vexing, thrilling. He’d proven he would do anything for her, without limit.
“You are everything to me, Wil. I love you.”
“Love you back.” He smiled, making her notice his blue-tinged lips. “Worth it.”
His pulse raced in his throat, his skin cooled, and she finally understood what he meant.
Worth dying for.
Horror froze her from head to toe and she choked on a scream. She stuttered before she managed to speak. “Oh, no you don’t, Wilhelm Montegue! Stay with me.” She looked at the clock. “Martin! Help!”
“Fine,” Wilhelm groaned, his eyes still shut.
“My lady?” Martin rushed through the door, his shirt half unbuttoned. He took one look at Wilhelm, at the pool of blood soaked into the bed, and breathed an oath. Martin glanced at the clock and scowled, shaking his head.
“What should we do?”
Without explanation Martin ran back through the doorway, and she wanted to shriek. “Wilhelm? Wil, answer me.”
“Hmm?”
“Stay awake.”
“Tired.”
She hated seeing his strong body cold and shaking, his skin crusted with dried blood. He appeared deathly; it looked all wrong. “No! No, don’t! Do you hear me?”
Martin dropped an armload of supplies on the bed. She heard a rush of footsteps and murmuring voices in the room. Only a corner of her mind noted bowls of steaming water, the fire being stoked in the grate, pungent medicinal smells, and the clink of metallic tools. The rest of her mind was occupied with begging Wilhelm to hold on.
O’Grady leaned beside her. “Fine work, Lady Devon. When I say the word, move aside and remove the bandage.”
“What will you do?”
He sliced a blade down the seam of Wilhelm’s trousers, splitting the fabric. “Best if you don’t look, my lady.”
Martin came to her other side, holding a bowl, linen rags draped over his arm.
“Go.”
Her arms almost didn’t obey; she was too numb. Her joints slowly unlocked and she leaned back to move out of the way. In a flurry that looked like practiced routine, O’Grady whisked away the fabric, Martin dumped hot vinegar water over the wound, and O’Grady pinched both sides of the cut to hold it together. They both cursed as fresh blood gushed from the seam.
“Will it work?” Martin muttered.
O’Grady stared as though stunned. “No.”
“What? What won’t work?” Sophia crawled over the bed and lifted Wilhelm’s head to rest in her lap. He’d barely reacted to the vinegar water flushing out the wound. Small pink shards dotted the soaked sheet, fragments of splintered bone. Her stomach heaved, but she swallowed and focused on O’Grady. “What are you doing?”
“If I sear the skin, the artery will still leak underneath. He’ll die of that too.”
“Where is that damned surgeon?” came a third voice.
She turned to see Sir Gideon holding a blade in the flames, heated to a red glow with the edges turning white. He rose, walked to the bedside, then lifted Wilhelm’s hand and noted his fingernails tinged blue. “Cauterize the artery. We have no time left.”
Gideon passed the blade to O’Grady and flashed his severe ice-blue gaze at her. “Try to calm him,” he ordered. “This will be unpleasant.” He took his place at the foot of the bed, grasping Wilhelm by the ankles as Martin restrained his arms.
She had no time to protest the hare-brained idea; it happened too fast.
O’Grady let go, opening the sides of the wound. The blade landed with a sound like bacon in a skillet. Wilhelm seized and arched his back, his agonized shout contained behind clenched teeth. The putrid smell nearly made her retch, and an oily cloud of steam lingered. She folded her arms around his shoulders and rested her forehead on his, whispering to him. Her throat lurched and swelled with the threat of tears.
He started chanting under his breath, “Wilhelm Cavendish Montegue, Corporal First Class, Third Battalion cavalry.” Over and over again, pausing to gasp without parting his teeth as O’Grady worked with the knife. She looked from M
artin to O’Grady to Sir Gideon, silently begging one of them to notice her desperation.
Martin glanced over, his face an inscrutable mask. He explained quietly, “He was trained to do that, as a defense against being broken. He thinks he is captured or is reliving it.” Martin swallowed and stepped back, releasing Wilhelm’s arms with a look of disgust. She felt it, too, a horrible sickness, comprehending that this had been done to Wilhelm before.
Just when she thought it was over, she looked up for confirmation and saw Sir Gideon reheating the knife in the fire and O’Grady holding the gash shut.
“—surgeon repair it later, odds of saving the leg…” she heard Gideon say to Martin. She groaned in disbelief and had no control over the tears spilling down her cheeks.
“Very pretty scar you’ll sport here, Old Wil.”
He was too far gone to respond to O’Grady’s attempt at humor.
Wilhelm’s chant turned into unintelligible mumbling. He only flinched when the knife seared his skin; she realized he deliberately held himself still and trembled with the effort. Gideon had released him too, standing watch with a wizened expression decades too old for his young face. She prayed Wilhelm would fall unconscious, but he stayed far from it. He seemed to feel every awful moment, accepted the pain without a fight, without a single scream.
Even if the procedure saved his life, what would be the damage to his mind? She could not deny that despite his moments of normality and other moments of utter brilliance, at times she saw within him the makings of a madman. What would this suffering do to him?
“Wilhelm,” she sobbed into his neck. “Stay with me. Please.” Sophia held him and cried into his shirt. So much for calming him. She lost control, grasping his shoulders, dying a vicarious death every time he tensed with pain. It seared over every moment of torment she’d known before, branding something new into her brain.
He gasped for breath, and his chant altered. She leaned close, watching his lips move, and thought she heard him say, “Worth it. Worth it, worth it.”
All the words ever spoken became nothing compared to his honest, pure gesture of love, the act of sacrificing oneself for another. It transformed her. Shifted the universe and realigned the stars to bring one simple fact into focus, too pure and powerful to be spoken aloud.
